But back to the historic telephone call: the voice on the other end announced:
“The banking house Lammer and Company is bankrupt.”
It was our bank.
X Aren’t We Lucky!
IT HAS HAPPENED many times that rich people have, in one moment, lost a fortune. When you read about such losses in novels or see them acted on the stage, they always seem dramatic. It is most interesting to go through it once yourself. That voice announcing the bankruptcy of our bank had put a definite period to the end of a very comfortable chapter in our life: the chapter “Rich.”
The bank where our money was deposited at that time was owned by a lady, Mrs. Lammer. About this time Hitler and his Nazis across the border began to make things difficult for little Austria. In order to force Austria to her knees, all tourist trade with Austria had been forbidden overnight, thus cutting her lifeline. This caused serious repercussions in the world of finance. Mrs. Lammer was not the only banker who looked with much worry into the near future. My husband knew and esteemed her as a brave and smart woman. When he heard that she was in serious difficulties with her bank, he took all his funds, safely deposited in a big bank in England, and came to her rescue. That sounds like a fairy tale. But in fairy tales it sometimes happens that the rich prince with the good heart, through some witchery, wakes up one day a poor man, and has to undergo terrible adventures before his final reward.
And so it happened. In spite of the—for Austria—very big sum of money, the bank couldn’t be saved; the money was lost.
My poor husband! He tortured himself with reproaches.
“I should never have taken the money out of England,” he moaned. “Never! Oh, the poor, poor children!”
“Now, listen,” I said finally, “you didn’t do that to give yourself a good time. You wanted to help somebody in a desperate situation, didn’t you? What do we read the Gospel for? Don’t you remember that it says, whatever we do for love of Him, He will reward us a hundredfold in this life, and on top of it we get life everlasting?”
After all, we were not exactly starving yet. But we had to face realities. Most of the money was gone. There was just enough left to pay the most necessary bills if one lived less stylishly. But there was a great deal of real estate, representing a nice sum. This, however, would not be touched; it was set aside to secure the future of the children. We had to reduce our standard of living, give up the car, send away six of the eight servants, keeping only the butler and the cook, close the big rooms downstairs and on the second floor, and live cozily together on the third floor, where it would be easy to get along without a maid. My poor husband felt like a beggar. He was so depressed, and I felt terribly sorry for him as I watched him walking up and down, back and forth through the room by the hour, chewing the edge of his moustache and looking hopelessly sad.
On top of all his worries, I was getting on his nerves, too. Somehow or other, I just couldn’t share his utter despair. Ever since the moment when we had learned the money was lost, I had experienced a strange expectancy. I felt elated, and not for my life could I look discouraged, try as I would. Did I perhaps feel faintly—remotely—that we were just at the beginning of the great crescendo in the song of our life, which would from now on continue uninterruptedly?
The “hundredfold reward” set in almost immediately with the reaction of the children: their complete unconcern as to whether we had a car or not, their unrestrained willingness to take over new duties, new responsibilities, and this not in an attitude of suffering and resignation, but with rolled-up shirtsleeves.
Rupert, the oldest, was the only one not at home. He was in Innsbruck in pre-medical school, and I went to see him to break the bad news, not only that his liberal allowance had to be stopped right away, but he would have to work his way through the university. I came home glowing with enthusiasm.
“Aren’t we lucky, Georg, that we lost that money! How would we ever have found out what fine fellows the children are?”
And I told him how Rupert had taken it with a smile. And that cheerful smile of the boy went a long way—it lit up the troubled face of his father. When I saw Georg’s reaction after so many worried days and nights, my joy had no end. Too much joy can’t be taken alone; it hurts. And so I hugged and squeezed my poor husband until he freed himself laughingly, catching his breath.
“What’s the matter with you? You act as if you had made a million dollars.”
“Oh, much more,” I said. “I have just found out that we were not really rich, we just happened to have a lot of money. That’s why we can never be poor. I am so happy to know that we don’t belong to those for whom it is so hard to enter the Kingdom of God.”
But in spite of all my enthusiasm, something had to be done. We had to earn our living. But how?
In those days we reaped the first harvest of that blessed custom we had started long ago of reading the Gospel together with the children. At every crossroad, in every tribulation one word or the other would pop up, which seemed made for the occasion. “Whatsoever you shall ask,” said Our Lord, “you shall receive.”
“Whatsoever.” So we started asking together for the right light, for the right guidance, and the answer was just around the corner in Nonnberg. I went there to ask them to help us pray in this tight situation.
“Why don’t you ask the Archbishop for permission to have a chapel, as so many other castles and estates do,” said Frau Rafaela. “I am sure he would send a priest to stay with you, and you could rent the extra rooms of your house to students of the Catholic University.”
As simple as that! The good old Archbishop Ignatius, personification of kindness and love, gave his permission most readily. One of the big rooms downstairs, not in use now, seemed just made for a chapel, with a bay window in the corner for the altar; the pews were on the side facing each other as in a quaint old convent chapel. The pastor from the parish church most kindly helped us out with the most necessary vestments and vessels, and one of the professors of the Theological Faculty was just looking for a quiet place where he could write a scholarly book. He was our first boarder, and besides, he said Mass in the morning and gave Benediction in the evening. Whenever my husband met me alone these days, he said hastily: “Yes, we are lucky, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
But really—weren’t we lucky? Never before had we been so close to each other in the family as now, or had seen, with such gratitude to God, the good qualities in the children’s characters; not a murmur, not a reproach. After all, it would be thinkable that one or the other of the older ones might have mumbled something about lack of foresight or carelessness. Such accusations didn’t even dawn on them. Never before had we had a priest in our midst, a chapel and the Holy Eucharist in the house. This was not just being lucky any more; this was a blessing!
I don’t know which word to use now; was it funny, comical, or pathetic to watch the reaction of our rich neighbors? One of the worst things that can happen to a rich man seems to be the suspicion that you might want to borrow some of his money. Anticipating this grave danger, they have to prevent it by all means. So whenever they met my husband, they started talking about the bad times and how they didn’t know how to make ends meet. Once Georg came home good and angry.
“Just think what happened.”
“Here we go!” I thought as he walked to and fro in big striding steps, chewing his moustache.
“First I met Maxi.” (One of the richest men in the countryside.) “Out of a blue sky he started to explain to me that even if his own brother were to ask him for a loan, he would have to refuse. ‘In these times, you know,’” and he imitated Maxi’s mournful tone of voice. “And a few minutes later,” he continued, “I met Baroness K., and she said, almost disappointedly: ‘I met your children the other day and I was astonished how well they look and how cheerful, and still so neatly dressed. ’Still—I love that! Say—” and he stopped short in front of me. “Are those people crazy? And don’t tell me again I’m lu
cky!”
“Yes, I do,” and I kissed him in the middle of his angry mouth, “because you are. Very lucky, indeed. For all the money in the world you couldn’t have found out who your real friends are, and now you know.”
At this he had to laugh, and after you have once laughed, you aren’t really angry any more.
A year later the house was full of people, young professors and students from the Faculty. Never before had we had so much fun and such interesting evenings. We didn’t make much money from the boarders, but enough to meet the bills and to keep the big house going.
Seldom before had there been so much laughter, so many spirited discussions, so many worth-while people to meet. Professor D., our first boarder, had quickly become a very dear and wonderful friend. When his book was nearly finished, his publisher came to visit him, and stayed afterwards for a cup of tea in the library, where the fire in the fireplace was roaring. It was a miserably cold day in November. This was only the first visit of many, many to come. Otto Müller, the young publisher, was counted among our closest friends, and shortly all the writers, scientists, professors who came to visit him, landed finally in our house. What richness that brought into our lives, especially to the growing children. On such evenings I couldn’t quite suppress a triumphant look at my husband who, to avoid hearing the dreaded word “lucky,” put his hand soothingly on mine. “I see what you mean.”
During all that time we had never stopped singing and making music together, much to the enjoyment of our house guests. The new chapel was a strong incentive to sing more seriously than ever before.
At Easter, 1935, Professor D. had to make a journey, and asked a priest friend to come and say Holy Mass in his stead. Afterwards at breakfast the young priest, whose name was Father Wasner, said: “You really sang quite well this morning, but…” and he explained in a few words several important things to us, and right then and there at the breakfast table, made us repeat a motet, conducting it from where he was sitting. None of us knew then just how lucky we were:
This was the birth of the
TRAPP FAMILY SINGERS.
XI “Never Again”
IT WILL BE very interesting one day to follow the pattern of our life as it is spread out like a beautiful tapestry. As long as we live here we see only the reverse side of the weaving, and very often the pattern, with its threads running wildly, doesn’t seem to make sense. Some day, however, we shall understand.
In looking back over the years we can discover how a red thread goes through the pattern of our life: the Will of God.
After the first Lent when my family had started to read the Gospel together and had since kept up this practice until it had turned into a habit, it became clearer all the time that this was the message Christ came upon earth to teach us. It is the heartpiece of our religion—of all religion—to do the Will of God.
And here we had found our guiding star which should lead us faithfully through all tempests into the final haven.
When Father Wasner found out that we were seriously interested in our home music, he came more and more often to join us. He proved to be an outstanding musician. A master on the organ, he also played the piano beautifully. But his most enticing charm was his way of making music simple and uncomplicated. What a joy it was to listen to his mellow voice when he sang the Lieder of Schubert, Brahms, and Hugo Wolf. And up to this very day we have never stopped admiring his vast knowledge of musical history and theory. He has never behaved like one of the great, who dwell in unapproachable light. He simply was full of music, and wherever you touched him, it came out.
What a wonderful summer! Father Wasner came every day, and singing turned serious now. With burning enthusiasm we plunged into deep waters. Motets and Masses by Palestrina, Lasso, Vittoria for the chapel, which we could never have tackled alone, we studied now under the magic guidance of a true musician. How that old music came alive, how we reveled in those ancient tunes!
These months still belong to our most precious memories. It was a time of first love, with all the flavor of being in love. This music welled up out of our hearts simply for pure love of music. At that time we sang because we had to, and nobody and nothing could stop us. We didn’t need an audience. We didn’t even want one. It would only have disturbed us. In the morning we sang for God alone, for His greater honor and glory during the divine service. In the evening we worked on madrigals, ballads, and wonderful ancient folk songs in settings by old masters, and we sang them to our hearts’ delight outside in our park or in one of those mountain meadows overlooking the valley. Six hours spent like this was nothing at that time. We were intoxicated with music, drunk with the wonder of song.
On a memorable day in August, 1936, we were sitting together once more behind the screen of pines in our park. It was late in the afternoon, a Saturday. Everybody had stopped working and changed into Sunday clothes. Together we had said the rosary, a ritual which began our Sunday. During the week we had been working on the motet, “Jesu Meine Freude” by Bach. Now we sang the movements already memorized, the different verses of the chorale and that wonderful fugue. And then we sang over and over again our newest favorite of which we were especially proud because it was in English: “The Silver Swan” by Orlando Gibbons.
All of a sudden we were interrupted by a strange clapping of hands. A little bewildered, a little embarrassed, we went around the pine screen and met—who could describe our amazement?—the one whom we had so far admired from afar as Marschallin in Der Rosenkavalier, or as Fidelio—none other than the great Lotte Lehmann.
She had heard that we had let our house in previous summers and wanted to inquire about renting it; and now, just by chance, she had heard us sing, hidden behind the pines. Right there and then she proved how really great she was, for only the great ones can appreciate the achievements of others. With what enthusiasm, her beautiful eyes glowing with warmth, she talked about our “art,” which made us blush and want to kiss her.
“Oh, children, children,” she exclaimed over and over again; “you must not keep that for yourselves, that precious gift. You must give concerts. You have to share this with the people. You have to go out into the world; you have to go to America!”
Her genuine enthusiasm swept us off our feet. Not that we believed it. Even the poor boy in the fairy tale must have a hard time to believe it when he is suddenly told he is a prince.
“Don’t forget,” our illustrious guest continued, “you simply have gold in your throats!”
But the mere thought of having to step on a stage was so frightening that the gold—hidden in the depths of our throats anyhow—was no temptation at all.
“Tomorrow is the festival for group singing. You have to take part in that contest. You simply have to!” She coaxed earnestly and feverently.
Pale with anticipated stage fright, we insisted:
“N-n-n-n-no…n-n-n-n-never!”
“My husband was aghast. He loved our music, he adored our singing; but to see his family on a stage—that was simply beyond the comprehension of an Imperial Austrian Navy officer and Baron.
“Madam, that is absolutely out of the question,” he said, and meant it.
“Oh, not at all,” Lotte Lehmann said with a twinkle in her eyes. Finally, believe it or not, she had us all convinced. She herself placed a telephone call which, at this late hour, entered us in the contest.
After Lotte Lehmann had left with renewed expressions of her enthusiasm and best wishes for good luck for tomorrow, we woke up. What had we done? What had we gotten into? We were desperate, frantic, beside ourselves, miserable, disconsolate, depressed, broken-hearted—(these are all the words I can find in the Thesaurus, but they by no means exhaust what I want to describe as the state of our minds on that evening).
When our name was called the next afternoon and our turn had arrived, we stumbled onto the stage, stepping on our own and everybody else’s feet, alternately blushing and growing pale, with a lump in our throats and a wild fear in our h
earts. Why had we ever said “yes”? In a daze we sang our three numbers, and none of us can remember today which ones they were. A gentleman down in the audience tried hard to look mildly interested but perfectly detached. Poor Georg! Our only wish, when we were offstage again, was to evaporate immediately, but we had to stick it out and wait for the awarding of prizes. As if in a fog, we saw the judges return from their conference. Silence settled over the vast crowd, and from afar we could hear the announcement:
The Story of the Trapp Family Singers Page 11
